


Symphony

by blissblossoms



Category: Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Fluff, M/M, mentions of several other characters & their instruments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 07:54:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blissblossoms/pseuds/blissblossoms
Summary: The orchestra’s piano accompanist Hwang Minhyun decided that two weeks before their final concert was a great time to get mono and thus could no longer practice with them. After the initial frenzy of disbelief, shock, and disappointment settled down (“Wow, guys, thanks for caring so much about my health,” Minhyun had rolled his eyes), everyone set out to find a replacement who could learn complicated music within two weeks and was willing to sacrifice their lunch period for double practices.Somehow, Guanlin assumes, Seonho was the only viable option. — Guanlin/Seonho, High School Orchestra AU





	Symphony

Guanlin plucks his violin, fingers absentmindedly skidding over the strings. An uneasy buzz of tension fills the entire room. Behind him, the rest of the orchestra shuffle around, visibly restless. Guanlin is pretty sure Park Woojin has tuned his instrument three times within the last two minutes. Ha Sungwoon adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, flute balanced precariously on his lap. Park Jihoon checks his reflection in his tuba. Across the room, Ong Seongwoo and Yoon Jisung battle using their cello bows as swords while Kang Daniel laughs from behind his bass.

A small breeze floats in through the window and settles on Guanlin’s face. He flashes his gaze to the clock in the corner of the room. Rehearsal should have started five minutes ago, a fact certainly not missed by their conductor, Kahi. Legs crossed and baton in hand, Kahi bears an expression that no one ever wanted to be on the receiving end of.

Guanlin’s eyes are still trained on the clock when the door swings wide open. “Sorry! Sorry everyone!” The person on the receiving end of Kahi’s death glare bows in apology.

“Seonho, why are you late?” Kahi asks, raising a challenging eyebrow.

“By accident I went to lunch instead of coming here. I was just so hungry that my feet carried me straight to the cafeteria!” the Seonho boy pleads, eyes wide. Strangely, Guanlin senses not even a drop of sarcasm in his tone, and he’s already become a pro at detecting sarcasm by listening to Jaehwan’s remarks from the trumpet section.

Kahi is caught off-guard as well by Seonho’s comment but quickly regains her composure. “This won’t happen again. You have a big responsibility taking over for Minhyun,” she says. With a nod, Kahi directs Seonho to the upright piano at the front of the room.

Guanlin sighs, now painfully aware of both Minhyun’s absence and the emptiness in his stomach. The orchestra’s piano accompanist Hwang Minhyun decided that two weeks before their final concert was a great time to get mono and thus could no longer practice with them. After the initial frenzy of disbelief, shock, and disappointment settled down (“Wow, guys, thanks for caring so much about my health,” Minhyun had rolled his eyes), everyone set out to find a replacement who could learn complicated music within two weeks and was willing to sacrifice their lunch period for double practices. Somehow, Guanlin assumes, Seonho was the only viable option.

Seonho adjusts the piano bench for what seems like an eternity before finally turning to Kahi with a bright smile and proclaiming, “I’m ready!” Kahi nods and lifts her hands, to which everyone responds instantly.

As a first violin, Guanlin has several measures of rest at the beginning of this particular piece. Because of this, Guanlin has the opportunity to watch as the entire orchestra falls apart, barely manages to piece itself back together, falls apart another time, and then completely bursts in flames. The entire room is silent in the aftermath of the trainwreck. Lee Gunhee from the choir practicing next door even pokes his head through the window to ask if everything is alright.

Kahi’s expression of disappointment deepens. “Start from measure six, when Seonho comes in,” she says.

After a few repeats, it becomes evident that Seonho was the cause of the meltdown. The rest of rehearsal is blur of Kahi urging Seonho to stay steady, Seonho crying out in distress because he can’t stay steady, members of the choir next door popping in to ensure that everything was okay, and Guanlin leaning back in his chair, violin abandoned at his side.

The bell rings, and Guanlin hasn’t played a single note. The first violins enter in the sixteenth measure, but they had barely finished the first line before it was time to leave. While packing up his instrument, Kahi calls to him.

“Guanlin, what class do you have next period?” she asks from her seat on the piano bench next to an intimidated Seonho.

“Study hall,” Guanlin says, dreading where this conversation is going. Should he lie and say that he has AP Chemistry next period?

“Could you stay behind and help Seonho with his part, then?” Kahi says despite her already knowing his answer.

“Uh. Sure,” Guanlin responds, eyeing Seonho with a wary expression.

After the rest of the orchestra filters out of the room to their next classes, Guanlin makes his way to the piano bench and sits beside Seonho who is fishing around in his backpack for something. The entire situation is uncomfortable, as Guanlin knows next to nothing about playing the piano and Seonho, judging from his performance today, knows absolutely nothing about playing with an orchestra.

Seonho pulls a literal footlong sandwich out of his bag and smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, I was really hungry,” he says before swallowing down at least half of it in one bite.

“Uh. It’s fine. So, maybe you could just play through your part and I’ll stop you if something’s wrong,” Guanlin says as Seonho inhales the rest of the sandwich with notable grace.

“Okay!” he chirps. Seonho positions his fingers on the keys, waits for Guanlin’s cue, and plays, eyes darting around on the sheet music. Guanlin blinks in confusion. The notes are all correct, the rhythm is fluid and effortless, but something about Seonho’s playing just sounds _wrong_ in Guanlin’s ears. Abruptly Seonho stops playing, fingers frozen in place. “Is something wrong? Am I playing it right?”

“No, you’re playing it correctly, it’s just…” Guanlin struggles to word his feelings correctly. All he had to go off of was a vague sense of strangeness.

“Just what? I know Kahi said that I wasn’t staying steady with the beat. I didn’t really understand what she meant.” A pause. “Gosh, this is harder than I thought it would be. It’s hard now, too, since you’re here,” Seonho says, shoulders dropping an inch.

“What do you mean it’s hard since I’m here?” Guanlin questions, unsure of what answer to expect.

“Well, you’re an orchestra superstar, of course,” Seonho says as if relaying a known fact.

“What?” Whatever response Guanlin was expecting, that certainly was not it.

“You’re the concertmaster, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s nothing to be intimidated about.”

“No, you’re super cool! At all the concerts you play the violin solo!”

Guanlin actually laughs. “Thanks,” he says, shooting Seonho a sidelong glance. Immediately he wished he hadn’t, because Seonho’s face is way too close to his own for comfort. From this vantage point, Guanlin can see that Seonho’s eyelids are faintly uneven and curses himself for finding it adorable.

The air around him goes cold and his body flushes with warmth at exact time, leaving a very confused Guanlin next to a starry-eyed Seonho. Guanlin inhales, air scraping against his dry throat. “Okay. Anyways, where do you think you’re having trouble?” he asks, turning his head away from Seonho as if he were trying to block his eyes from the sun.

“I don’t know!” Seonho laments. In frustration, he collapses on the piano, the keys mashing together in an obnoxious, discordant sound. Guanlin spies the head of Lee Gunhee peering in through the window again. “I’m actually really good at piano. I’ve been a soloist since third grade. I don’t think I’m playing anything wrong.”

It clicks in an instant. “So you’ve been a soloist for seven years, then?” Guanlin questions.

“Yep. I really thought I should be able to play this part well, since I’ve been playing for so long, you know.” Seonho sighs.

“No, that makes perfect sense,” Guanlin insists. To Seonho’s sudden look of confusion, Guanlin continues. “You’ve been playing solo for such a long time that it’s hard for you to adjust to playing with the entire orchestra.” Seonho blinks, still not understanding. “In the orchestra, the piano is just an accompaniment. You’re used to playing completely on your own terms, with your own tempo. Here you have to blend in with the overall feeling of the song that everyone else is working towards.” Seonho’s expression slowly shifts to one of vague understanding. Guanlin adds, “Of course, it doesn’t help that you’re technically playing the harp part.”

“ _Wait_ , I’m playing the _harp part_? I thought I was playing piano!” Seonho exclaims in outright bewilderment.

“Well, you technically are playing the piano, but you’re playing the harp part. There’s no harp player in the orchestra, so we just usually use the keyboard to fill the instruments we don’t have. Minhyun didn’t tell you?” Guanlin says. He also pointedly glances at the music on the stand. “Or, I mean, it literally says ‘Harpe’ on your sheet music.”

“I thought that was French for piano or something!” Seonho wails, head buried in his hands.

Guanlin has no response for that, so he ignores it. “Now that you know, try playing it again. I’ll play the first violin part. Try to just fit with what I play.”

For the rest of the period they practice. More often than not Guanlin has to remind Seonho to tone down the theatrical trills and berate his complete disregard for the printed dynamics. At one point Guanlin snaps, “Remember you’re a harp accompaniment. You’re playing like it’s Chopin’s Waltz No. 7 Op. 64 No. 2 in C sharp minor,” to which Seonho responds with a bright, “Ooh, I love that one! You wanna hear me play it?” At a loss, Guanlin says nothing and allows Seonho to indulge himself with only four minutes left in the period.

Seonho really is talented, Guanlin has to admit as he watches Seonho’s hands glide over the keyboard like ripples on water. The bell rings, cutting off Seonho’s performance.

“Okay, I have French next period, so I gotta run. Maybe this time I’ll actually learn something. See ya, Guanlin!” Seonho shoots him a smile and runs out of the room, leaving Guanlin alone with the crushing uncertainty of whether or not he could help Seonho improve to perform within the next two weeks. The pressure makes him dizzy.

The door connecting the orchestra and choir rooms opens. “Hey, are okay? Cause I heard a lot of—”

“Yes, Gunhee, I’m fine.”

  
The week flies past in a blur of lunch-period full orchestra practice, morning violin section practice, seventh-period Seonho’s harp-piano practice, and on the rare occasions Guanlin finds free time, practice for his solo. If Guanlin were to rank those in order of increasing importance, it would go something like solo practice/violin section practice, full orchestra practice, then Seonho harp-piano practice, mostly because everyone who plays the violin is a perfectionist overachiever and Seonho is actually a natural disaster on two long legs.

By some stroke of divine intervention, Seonho improves. After the first grueling days of endless practice yield no results, Seonho finally realizes that he is only a small part of a bigger performance and channels that into his playing. Within a week, the full orchestra practices flow seamlessly, or as seamlessly as Kahi’s harsh criticisms and everyone’s collective panic will allow. At least they didn’t have to stop every six minutes for Seonho now.

And, for some strange, inexplicable reason, throughout the past week Guanlin has caught himself staring at Seonho’s fingers dancing across the piano, tan skin contrasting against the ivory keys. Also, Guanlin is almost certain that the periods have become shorter. He used to age ten years in two periods, but now they went by in a wink with Seonho. Not because he want to spend more time with Seonho, of course, but because Seonho could use more practice. Of course.

“I never realized how different playing piano could be,” Seonho says, chewing through a large bite of pizza during one of their food breaks.

“What do you mean?” Guanlin tilts his head in curiosity.

“Before this week, I only ever knew how to play as a soloist, on my own terms. I just played how I wanted to with the sheet music I had. Now it’s completely different. It’s still piano, and I still have to follow the sheet music, but now I have to be aware of what everyone else is doing and match it. It’s like I’m helping set the scene for something amazing to happen,” Seonho says.  “I didn’t expect it to be like that. I like it.”

Guanlin thinks that Seonho’s words have resonance to them, even though Seonho says them through a mouth full of food. “Then what’s the amazing thing that happens?” Guanlin ventures, hoping that he doesn’t know Seonho’s answer.

“Your solo, of course!” Seonho says, eyes wide and bright. “But it’s not just that. It’s the overall impression the music gives. Your solo is a really important part, but the only way for the music to be fully complete is for everyone to play.”

The window is slightly ajar, and a comforting gust of air floats into the room. It smells like rain. With the beginnings of a smile on his face, Guanlin relaxes back in his seat even though they should resume practicing soon. “You remind me of me,” he says.

Now it’s Seonho’s turn to be curious. “How?”

Guanlin hesitates, mulling over whether or not he wants to share this and pretending that he doesn’t see Seonho stealing Skittles from his lunchbox. Cheeks puffed out with food, Seonho looks at him so sincerely that Guanlin has the sudden impulse to tell him every secret he has ever kept in his entire life. “I was a solo violinist when I was younger,” Guanlin says, mentally swatting away any strange feelings like a mosquito.

“Really?” Seonho sits back in his seat as well. All prospects of practicing for this period are gone. “I mean, I guess I could see it since you’re the concertmaster in the orchestra. Honestly, though, you just seem like an orchestra type of guy.”

“Yeah, that’s what I realized myself. About two years ago, in middle school, I got really frustrated. I wasn’t improving at all, so I took a break. I stopped playing violin completely,” Guanlin says while simultaneously screaming at himself to stop talking. “I was so confused. How could I hate something that I had spent my entire life on? If I permanently quit, did that mean that all of my effort over the years were completely wasted?”

Seonho makes a small noise of empathy, which spurs Guanlin to continue. “As a sort of last ditch effort I joined the orchestra. I didn’t really care enough to keep on practicing as a soloist, but I didn’t wanna completely abandon the violin altogether, so I thought I’d just play in school. And, well, you probably know what happened next since I’m sitting here right now talking to you.”

“You liked playing with the orchestra?”

Guanlin breathes in. “Yeah. For exactly the reasons you said earlier. I wanted to be a part of something bigger than just me, and the orchestra let me do that,” he says. “Playing with everyone else reminded me why I fell in love with music in the first place.”

To Guanlin’s surprise, Seonho’s expression falls, his mouth a silent line. “That’s great. I’m jealous. I started playing piano because my parents wanted a musician in the family,” he says softly, a far cry from his usual cheerful demeanor. After a few moments Seonho shakes his head, as if to rid himself of any heavy thoughts, and returns to his default smile. “But it’s not all that bad. I really like the piano, and I really like you, so playing the piano with the orchestra can only be a good thing, right?”

Seonho widens his brilliant smile, and Guanlin wonders if he should invest in sunglasses.

“We should get back to practicing. I don’t wanna let Minhyun down. I promised him I would fill his shoes. Or Kahi. I’m kind of afraid of her. Or you. I want to give you the best accompaniment for your solo,” Seonho declares, adjusting his posture on the piano bench.

Taking in Seonho’s grin of unadulterated excitement, Guanlin can’t help but feel that _he_ was the one in danger of letting Seonho down.

 

The day of the concert arrives. Predictably, the entire room is in full-fledged panic mode. Guanlin observes the frenzy from his seat in the center of it all.

Bae Jinyoung looks close to tears as he clutches his bassoon. Park Woojin walks around asking if anybody has an extra E-string because his snapped. With a truly mournful expression, Woojin carries his ailing violin as if it is on the brink of death, and Guanlin has to look away out of respect. Byun Hyunmin and Yoo Hwiseung compete in a push-up competition (“To burn off the extra adrenaline,” Hwiseung says, on his fifty-third push-up) while the cello and bass section place bets and egg them on. Im Youngmin and Kim Donghyun hunch over a phone, most likely watching cute cat videos or something, respective trombone and viola forgotten and pushed aside. Lee Gunhee sneaks a glance into the room through the window.

Guanlin is surprised that Seonho isn’t in the midst of the madness, playing instrumental renditions of girl group songs with Lee Daehwi and Jeon Somi, or at least talking to Guanlin. In the corner, leaning close to the piano in concentration is Seonho, fingers flying over the keys.

Ever since their conversation that day, Seonho started to practice with a new earnestness. Sure he still joked around, ate a day’s worth of food in one sitting, and did terrible things to Guanlin’s heart with his smile, but Seonho retained complete focus while practicing his piece. Guanlin never questioned this shift because he already knew the cause. He recalled Seonho’s words: “I want to give you the best accompaniment for your solo!”

With a sigh, Guanlin follows suit and starts reviewing his own solo. Between full orchestra practice, violin section practice, and Seonho practice, Guanlin barely had time to practice his own solo. He plays through the solo, marking down notes and reminders for the performance. About fifteen minutes before the entire ensemble is due to be backstage, the hysteria in the room dies down at the appearance of Kahi and, to everyone’s surprise, Minhyun.

“Minhyun!” Seonho yelps, jumping to his feet and running over to engulf Minhyun in a hug. He practically knocks the piano bench over.

Minhyun laughs and makes a small “oof” when Seonho slams into him. “How was practice?” he asks.

“You didn’t tell me that I was playing the harp part!” Seonho releases his death grip and pouts, arms crossed over his chest. Guanlin fights the urge to snort. Seonho never acted cute in front of him.

“I tried to, but you ran away before I could say anything,” Minhyun says, patting Seonho’s hair in consolation. “Everything was okay, though?”

Seonho nods, “Yep!” Guanlin is about to return to his practice before Seonho continues, “Guanlin helped me a lot.” He walks over and drapes an arm around Guanlin’s shoulders. Guanlin mentally screams.

“Then I’m sure you’ll do fine. Guanlin’s our concertmaster for a reason,” Minhyun says, half-teasing.

Seonho nods furiously in agreement. “Just wait ‘til you hear his solo! Right, Guanlin?” Guanlin is internally dying and has no idea how to respond so he gives a feeble thumbs up.

As the time to perform approaches, everyone winds down. Park Woojin has finally found an E-string and fixed his violin. Kahi leads the orchestra to the stage where organizing themselves into formation is a struggle in itself. All the while, Guanlin is so tense that he is unnaturally calm. At one point, his violin somehow slips straight out of his grip, and Guanlin has no reaction whatsoever. Thankfully his stand partner Yongguk saves it in the nick of time, flashing Guanlin an “dude, are you okay?” look before settling into his own seat.

The curtains fly open, exposing the orchestra to the audience. The gust of cold air provides Guanlin with a strange sense of comfort. Normally whenever the curtains open, Guanlin feels vulnerable, as if all of his secrets are being revealed. But now, with the merciless lights beating down and Seonho positioned at the piano in the corner of his vision, Guanlin feels ready. This time, the curtains open, to reveal something amazing.

The first notes of Ha Sungwoon’s flute plunge the ensemble into the piece. Counting the beats in his head, Guanlin flourishes through the first violin parts with ease. Under the overpowering melody Guanlin can still hear Seonho’s harp-piano in perfect harmony with everyone else. All at once, his heart swells with something between pride and fondness for the orchestra, his violin, and Seonho.

His solo is rapidly approaching like a train with no breaks. From her place on the conductor’s stand Kahi cues him in, and soon the other instruments yield to Guanlin. This solo is not really different from any other concerto he has practiced before. While the technique was decently challenging, it never proved to be cause for concern. Even with limited practice, Guanlin never doubted his ability to play his solo through the end.

For a fleeting moment, Guanlin dares to sneak a glance at Seonho and his endless smile. Then, suddenly, Seonho’s face falls. Kahi’s eyebrows furrow as well. Guanlin feels pinpricks of sweat form on his forehead. He made a mistake, fell off-beat in the center of a particularly long run, the equivalent of stuttering. Seonho quickly regains his composure and sends an encouraging nod to Guanlin. Guanlin averts his eyes and finishes off his solo with no further hiccups.

At the end of the piece, the audience erupts into applause. Guanlin is pretty sure he sees Ong Seongwoo fake-crying and Park Woojin actually crying.

The curtains close, signal the end of their performance. Guanlin gathers his sheet music and shuffles through the flurry of instruments and bodies. The mistake wasn’t that bad, he knows, and he has experienced far worse in all his years of performing. But still, guilt nags at the edges of his mind as he steps backstage and skillfully deflects an incoming hug from a crying Woojin.

“Guanlin!” _Oh,_ Guanlin realizes, _that’s why_. Seonho bounds up to him. “The performance was incredible! I really felt like I came together with everyone else,” he says as they make their way back to the orchestra classroom. “And your solo, too.”

Guanlin winces, but Seonho is quick to clarify, “I heard the mistake, but it really wasn’t that big of a deal. You still looked cool, as always! It’s just…” He hesitates and purses his lips. “If I had played my accompaniment better, then it would’ve been easier for you to play your solo.”

Within a fleeting moment, all of Guanlin’s guilt over his mistake fades. “Yeah,” he says in a tone of resigned agreement, “you are the reason I messed up my solo.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You played so well that I was too shocked to play my part properly,” Guanlin laughs, fully aware that what he said was essentially true. He’d just have to replace “shocked” with something more fitting, like “lovesick” or “strangely attracted to you.” Guanlin knocks his shoulder into Seonho’s in a lame display of affection. “The only thing I’m upset about is that I can’t redeem myself to you with another performance, since Minhyun’s recovered.” He likes Minhyun, he really does, but Guanlin wishes that he would stay sick until the end of the year.

Seonho’s eyes light up tenfold. “Actually, guess what!” Guanlin has no chance to guess or even utter a “what?” before Seonho resumes talking. “I was thinking that I could still play the harp part, but, this time, with an actual harp.”

Guanlin blinks but says nothing.

“I’m learning how to play harp! I mean, of course piano will be my priority, but I really loved playing with the orchestra and you guys needed a harp, so here I am. And honestly, how hard can playing the harp be?” Seonho says.

Guanlin knows that the harp could be _very hard_ to learn, but he keeps his mouth shut and smiles.

“We can still practice together everyday,” Seonho says brightly.

Just two weeks ago the thought of having to suffer through extra practices was unbearable, but now, standing next to Seonho in the orchestra room heavy with the satisfaction that always follows a big performance, Guanlin thinks nothing could sound better.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like the main reason for this fic coming to existence is me being sad that i’ll never be able to play in high school orchestra again :’( also, i’ve actually only played in a symphonic orchestra once (i’ve mainly played in string orchestra) so lmk if anything is incorrect. 
> 
> also i noticed that seonho only talks with exclamation marks because if i add periods to his dialogue it just seems. wrong.
> 
> thanks for reading! let me know what you thought with a comment. :+)


End file.
